


At last

by anna_rr



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_rr/pseuds/anna_rr
Summary: It’s not the first time she’s smiled up at him and said, “I do,” but this time she really, really does.I haven’t written fic for a hundred years, but these two get me.  And some things are too irresistible not to do.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 18
Kudos: 93





	At last

It’s not the first time she’s smiled up at him and said, “I do,” but this time she really, _really_ does.

Applause mingles with the patter of rain on the corrugated iron sheet covering a hole in the roof of the tiny chapel, a forgotten corner of London she’d stumbled across on a case last year. She’d fallen in love with the faded stained glass and the crumbling stone, that sense of something well-worn but grown entirely at peace with its surroundings.

Walking through the park earlier in the week she’d imagined photos in the afternoon sunlight, the red-gold of autumn leaves catching the light in her hair. In the end, her brother captures the winning shot, the two of them under an enormous umbrella, Strike’s arm encircling Robin, his jacket pulled on over her dress. She’s laughing up at him and warmth glows in both their faces, as Lucy’s children splash in the puddles, and bedraggled dog walkers passing by smile in spite of the downpour.

A wedding reception at the Tottenham was Robin’s idea. “It’s genius, even for you, and that’s a high bar”, Strike had concurred. The hum of chatter and the unmistakable thrum of good-will fills the room, interrupted briefly when Strike stands and raps his fingers on his pint glass. Nick and Ilsa drum on the table beside them as he holds his beer aloft.

“To my Robin, my partner in crime and in everything.”

The pub resounds with cheers and the clink of glasses, the sparkle in Robin’s eyes reflected everywhere. 

It’s late by the time they leave, but the rain’s stopped, leaving rivulets of light dancing across the pavement. Robin feels warmed by more than the bottle of wine she’d shared with her mum and Vanessa, her heart too full for words as she reaches out for Strike’s hand and he leans in and kisses the top of her head, each of them a little bit unsteady as they walk back to Denmark Street.

Bemused by the lack of honeymoon plans, her parents had tried to gift them a weekend in a luxury hotel.

“You can’t spend your wedding night in the office,” Linda Ellacott had protested.  
“It’s not the actual office, Mum,” Robin reassured her, undeterred. 

The truth is Denmark Street has been the beginning of so many things for them, and all of them have worked out well; it’s the right place for this beginning, too.

He’s limping more heavily, she notices. Like her, he’s been walking on air all day, but - perhaps not unsurprisingly - it’s caught up with him.

She lets his hand go and nudges into him.  
“C’mon soldier, let me help.”

“Thanks,” he says, simply, and as his arm falls across her shoulders she’s gratified for the weight that tells her he’s doing this for him, and not just for her.

When they reach home there’s a moment of confusion as neither of London’s top investigators can find their key, until the truth dawns on him, and he delves into the pocket of the jacket she’s still wearing. Pulling her closer - somewhere between a romantic gesture and a counter-balance - he unlocks the door.

“You going to carry me over the threshold?” he asks her.  
She laughs. “I’ll try.”

He leans hard on her shoulder as they step inside, resting on the banister for a moment before they make their way upstairs. Music throbs through the walls from the flat below, late even for them, although in keeping with the hour, it’s Etta James rather than the endless guitar solos they’re treated to some nights.

Robin habitually goes over to fill the kettle. “Tea?”  
“In a minute.”

Taking off his prosthesis, she assumes; she’s been wearing her favourite heels all day, but it’s a relief to step out of them too. But when she turns he’s still standing, smiling at her, the muffled strains of what sounds like ‘At last’ filtering up through the floorboards. 

“Would you do me - ” he begins, holding out his hand.  
“It’s on the agenda,” she bats back, taking it.

He grins as he pulls her hand to his chest, wrapping his other arm around her. Her hand finds his back pocket, not exactly a recognised dance hold, but not entirely original either.

Technically, it’s more of a hobble than a dance, his aching leg and her tired feet. But she’s learned long ago that his presence restores her, both grounds her and lifts her up, the way hers does him. And even tired feet can tiptoe upwards, her face raised towards his.

“Maybe the tea can wait” he mumbles into her hair.  
“Mmmm,” she manages, as words slightly less distinct reach behind her ear, against her neck, into the hollow above her collarbone - “I think so too.”

It’s not the _first_ first dance she’s found herself pressed into him, thinking she might never let go - but this time, when she does let go, she knows that it’s just the start.


End file.
